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Title: For The Man Who Thought He Had Nothing Summary: The following is an authorized follow up to Alanna Baker's beautiful story Positive. It is also a companion piece to Paula Graves' 2AM which was written from Scully's point of view. Note: After reading both of these wonderful, heartwarming stories, my fingers just started typing and before I knew it, I had "For The Man Who Thought He had Nothing," Mulder's story. If the sounds a bit melodramatic, it probably is. It's just my personal answer to all those Christmas promos about gifts for the "Man Who Has Everything". That these 2 phenomenal fan fic writers find my work even remotely worthy to stand with theirs, still blows my mind! Comments: Please feel free to archive elsewhere as long as my name stays with it and you let me know where my "baby" is going. Again, I have to thank Paula and Alanna for their support and limitless generosity to a bumbling novice such as myself. I tread a familiar path, back and forth from kitchen to living room couch. The clock on my VCR perched atop my television blinks a monotonous and mocking 12:00. I never cared about the time before, using the machine only for the relief my esoteric form of entertainment could bring me. I don't need a clock to tell me the time now, either. It is night, home of threatening shadows, darkest fears and my deepest guilts. A long, lonely time I've become intimately familiar with after years of insomnia, broken only by heart stopping nightmares. How I'd come to dread those dark hours, dreaded them even as I came to accept their ghosts as my penance. But that was before. Another lifetime. The darkness holds no demons to torment me, tonight. I welcome it, even, because I no longer face the long, lonely hours alone. Instead, I cherish these quiet moments, rocking the wriggling, sputtering bundle in my arms. "Merry Christmas, princess," I whisper against her fuzzy head and cradle her in my arms so she can get a better look at the twinkling lights and sparkling ornaments, adorning the 6 foot monstrosity Byers gave us last week as a belated baby gift. Funny, I can't even remember a time when I wanted to acknowledge a holiday, let alone go the trouble of putting up decorations. Can't remember a Christmas that wasn't tainted by loss and guilt. But this year... Ah, this year ... Flashes of red, blue and yellow light battle the darkness and win, beating back the shadows. A tiny angel engraved with "Baby's First Christmas" a gift from Scully's mother, twinkles in their reflection as I sing my own soft lullaby. My daughter, my Hannah Grace. Me. a father. The notion still has the power to sneak up on me when I least expect it and knock me as senseless as the morning Scully first told me we were pregnant. I remember the exact moment she told me 9 months ago that I was going to be a father, "Your Mama's very precise, you know," I explain to Hannah's puzzled grimace. I knew a moment of pure and absolute terror like nothing I'd ever experienced. Worse than when I'd heard Scully's voice on my answering machine screaming as she fought off Duane Barry, more crippling than the paralysis I'd felt as I watched Samantha taken from me, both women I loved calling my name, begging for my help. Fear, clean, sharp and brutally honest, that even though I loved you and my Scully more than my own life, I would be helpless to protect you, keep you safe. "I felt so undeserving after all my failures. So scared. Afraid I'd let you both down, fail again." ."I used to think your mama was the best thing that ever happened to me, I confess as I draw my baby closer to my heart. "That was until they put you in my arms". A lump swells in my throat, remembering the wonder I felt when I first held you, the miraculous testament to Scully's and my love, all the more precious for the impossibility that your existence defied. I knew nothing could ever surpass that moment, that precious gift. "But I was wrong, princess. You and your mama have given me even more." Right on cue, Hannah sends a chubby fist flying, clipping my nose in infantile rage. Not exactly the gift I was think of. "You get that from your Mama, you know." "Just be thankful she's not packing." My Scully, my wife stands propped against the door jamb. She is rumpled and barely awake. Sleep wrinkles crease her flushed face. She is beautiful, and she is mine. That realization still has the ability to steal my breath in a heartbeat. The sight of her all tousled and groggy sets my heart racing and blood surging southward with a ferocity to rival the first time I realized I wanted her. When she burst into my room in Bellefleur Oregon, scared and vulnerable, dropping her robe to reveal her creamy skin, narrow waist and sweetly rounded bottom. Even five years later, the memory has the power to make me hot and hard. And yet she is even more beautiful now if that is possible, more desirable now. Her body is still ripe with the changes of motherhood. Breasts swollen, firmer, waist and hips softer and rounder. I want to love her long and hard right where she stands. Not a practical notion, my gurgling daughter reminds me. I swallow against a dry throat and find my voice at last. "She just fed an hour ago. I was hoping I could buy you another hour of sleep." "S'okay. I'm up now," Scully says, laying a sweet kiss on my lips before taking Hannah into her arms. Greedily our daughter searches out her midnight buffet through Dana's silk robe and my heart twists with love and a feeling of contentment I'm not sure I'll ever get used to. A feeling I am coming to crave like an alcoholic craves his next drink. And still I want more. To have them both with me, a part of me, every minute, every day, now and forever. I yet I know even such a blissful eternity could never be enough to satisfy this longing. "Come here." I nestle in the antique rocking chair next to the Christmas tree, nestling my wife between my thighs. I watch as Scully bares her breast and closes her eyes. She is the picture of contentment as Hannah suckles her breast and I wrap my arms around both of them. Scully's eyes seek mine. Shadowed and foggy from too little sleep, they still shimmer with desire and a need as elemental as food and air. And I draw her back against me, letting her feel my need as well. Her lips caress mine, softly at first, then more insistent, leaving no doubt that soon we will indulge in that most precious expression of our love. After we regain our breath, she eases Hannah to her other breast and sighs quietly. "I heard what you said, you know." I have a feeling she's referring to more than my comment about her mean left hook but let her take the lead. Baring my soul and sharing my weaknesses still doesn't come easily. I've learned my lessons in denial well. Mulders don't cry, don't mourn. Hell, we don't feel. At least that was what I thought. Scully has shown me I am not my father's son in that and so many other ways. "I love you. We love you, always." She lays a cool palm against my cheek, forcing my eyes to meet hers. "And you are a good man, Fox Mulder, a wonderful father. You deserve our love." She knows me too well. So well she can see the thoughts and fears I've repressed and banished to the far corners of my conscious mind and soul so successfully, that I can no longer acknowledge them myself. I can't imagine what I ever did to deserve her love. I only know that I thank every deity know to man, everyday that she has given it to me. The nightmares are rare now. Her love has filled in so many of the jagged crevices in my heart. And because of it, I have even begun to see the Fox Mulder she sees--a strong, compassionate, loving man worthy of her love. And I swear a silent vow for what has to be the millionth time that nothing will ever touch her or Hannah.. My passion in this comes not from macho pride. It is not the result of survivor's guilt, my seeking a second chance to save Samantha or even penance to make up for all the times I have put her life in jeopardy. Tonight I commit myself mind, body and soul to my family because of the gift they have given me this Christmas--the gift of redemption, salvation. The ability to finally forgive myself as they have through their unconditional love and faith. "I love you too," I whisper hoarsely. More than either of them can ever imagine. the End
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